


Second Sight

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, what if Doyle didn't die?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprising even himself, Doyle didn't die. Now he's back for a last glance at the people he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Sight

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2000, not long after Doyle left the cast of Angel. I needed the catharsis.   
> The story appeared in one of CatalenaMara's zines and hasn't been seen anywhere since.

Well, I should have told Angel I might be back, and that’s a fact.

Easy to say now, isn’t it? Though, to be fair, I wasn’t at all sure I’d survive. I never believe anything about my demon half even if I see it printed in a book in black and white. Treat it like a fantasy, I do, even though it’s as plain as the nose on me face. The spines on the nose on me face. Me blue face with red eyes. Damn. If I could stare in the mirror long enough, I’d make my skin smooth and pink again with nothing but my own stubbornness.

If I haven’t been able to shake this face off in three months, I ought to get used to it. It won’t be leaving me anytime soon. The human part of me must have been burned away by that device, just as the demon bastard said. How was I to know that the rest of me wouldn’t go up the chimney, too? Brakken demons use fire to escape from their enemies—I read about it in one of Angel’s books. We seem to burn up, but really we travel along some kind of heat current or element or something. What was it called in that book—phlogiston? Hell, I don’t think anyone has believed in that since Angel was a lad. Anyway, I materialized somewhere else, all right. Just like in Star Trek, only different. There I was in a Paris sewer, naked and blue as the day I was born, and me face all over spines, expecting to be a dead hero instead of a wet and cold demon. What a disappointment!

It’s a good thing I knew where to find the demon colony in the Paris sewers. I begged a pair of pants off them and went to see a cousin who’s a dealer at Les Puces. He gave me some secondhand clothes to tide me over. I crewed my way over from Le Havre to New York on a barge, and then worked as a janitor in a demon club for a few weeks for bus fare. If I hadn’t negotiated a few free rides along the way I’d never have reached L.A., though. Negotiation—now there’s a nice clean word for a dirty trade. Why don’t I call it what it is—hustling? I never expected to use that talent again, back when I was working with Angel. I miss the gift of prophecy. It made me think better of myself. Well enough that I didn’t want to prostitute myself for a sandwich or a free ride. I hope Cordelia appreciates that side of it.

But, after all, having a spiky blue face is better than being a cinder, isn’t it? To be honest, I actually believed I was going to be toast. Even gave my gift to Cordelia. I knew someone had to be looking after Angel. There’s another good reason not to go back. The girl’s probably out after my blood. Ironic, isn’t it? I finally get the courage to ask her out to dinner, and the next minute I’m kissing her and dumping all the pain and suffering of the world on her head. I wonder how she looks when she thinks of me. That gorgeous face gets pale. Her eyebrows rise and she sucks in her cheeks to make her dimples show while the corners of her mouth turn down. Probably doesn’t happen often. Good old Doyle. Died to save some innocent families. Finally redeemed himself and paid for his sins with his life. End of story, so let’s get on with our lives. Only I’m not dead, damn it. Maybe I ought to be.

To make a nice, clean story of it, I should never go back. That’s why I haven’t called them. I should leave them to think of me the way they do. I’m a little Lord Byron to them. Perhaps their eyes get moist when they think of me. The Doyle saga—all wrapped up and neat with its sad little ending. It’s when I go back that things will get messy. All their anger will come blazing out. All right, agreed, I shouldn’t go back. Maybe I’ll wait until Angel’s got another hundred years under his belt. Lord, even as a Brakken demon I’ll be dead by then—won’t make a bit of difference.

So what am I doing in the Los Angeles Greyhound terminal with a scarf over my face and my hat pulled down low and not so much as a dollar in my pocket? I can’t go back and I can’t go forward. I spent my last dime to get here. Stupid sod.

Angel’s office is only five blocks away. Even in the dark I’d better be careful where I walk. No matter what you are, somebody doesn’t like you, whether you’re all human or part demon or all demon and not human at all. It’s a rough life.

It’s 3am. Cordelia won’t be here at this time of night. Or will she? We used to burn the midnight oil when we were working on a case. Angel made us omelets and coffee. He used to look so sad while we ate, it fairly made me lose my appetite. Well, not completely. I managed. We harden our hearts when we have to, don’t we? Except for Angel. He can’t. But he can’t love, either. Cordelia told me all about his thing with Buffy. He gave up his soul to be with her. Now he can never risk it again. A perfect moment. Lord knows I haven’t had many of those. I always worried that if I finally got Cordy to go to bed with me that I’d lose control of my face right at the very time. Now she knows what I look like, and maybe she’ll be so relieved to see me she won’t care. Funny, since I kissed her I can’t get so worked up over her anymore. She’s like a distant fantasy, or someone I dreamed about once. It’s Angel I really want to see.

There’s the building. The front door I went in and out of so many times without thinking twice about it. Someone’s coming out—is that Angel? No, it’s Cordy and someone else. Short hair, glasses, and nice, conservative clothes. I don’t know him. He moves awkwardly. I bet he trips over his own feet in a fight. Cordy’s patting his arm and shaking her head. I bet he’s offered to see her home. He’s insisting. Well, I’ll be damned. Is she going out with him? No, there’s something stiff about him, the way he moves. He’s not interested in her. They’re friends, not lovers. I’ll just walk out there and say hello, casual like. I hope he doesn’t try to stake me or something. He looks easily spooked.

As I take two steps from my hiding place, the vampires jump out from where they’ve been waiting behind the cars along the curb. There are four of them.

“Angel!” Cordelia screams loudly enough to wake the dead, and I’m running towards her full tilt, thanking Providence for my demon strength. As predicted, the lout with her takes a valiant swing at the nearest thug, but ends up on his back. His head snaps back hard when he’s socked on the jaw. That’s going to hurt tomorrow.

The vamps are trying to drag Cordy to their car. They want to take her back to their nest, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let them. My demon heart is pumping hard. I’m scared. There are four of them, they hate demons, and I don’t even have a stake.

I hit the first one with my whole body weight and send him flying up against the stone wall of the building. He’s stunned. That feels good. My scarf and hat land in the gutter but they don’t matter now. As I try to pry a vamp off Cordelia, another jumps on my back and starts scratching at my neck. For a moment I think it’s just a bluff—they won’t drink demon blood—but then I realize he’s got a knife and he’s trying to slit my thick-skinned throat. I spin to throw him off and he falls, but not hard enough.

Cordelia’s almost in the car now. I’ve got to hand it to her—she’s got a lot of pluck. She’s fighting for all she’s worth, scratching, hitting, digging in her heels and even biting between screams. I jump for one of the vamps that have her, and that’s when Angel appears, bursting out of the building at a dead run. And he’s magnificent.

Effortlessly, he stakes the one that has his arms around Cordelia’s waist, makes a graceful turn and sees me. His eyes widen and his lips part, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Doyle,” he calls in that velvet voice and tosses me a stake. I rise to the occasion, backhanding it and staking the vamp behind me in one motion. As number three explodes into ashes number four runs away. Angel doesn’t chase him. He just stands and stares at me.

Cordelia hasn’t yet realized what manner of strange creature I am. She drops to her nylon-covered knees in the gutter and lifts her friend’s head into her lap. “Wesley,” she cries, “are you all right?”

I can’t return Angel’s stare for very long, so instead I go over and stake the vampire who’s sprawled unconscious against the building. The ashes rise around me, bringing tears to my eyes, blurring my vision.

“Doyle,” Angel says softly, and I have to look at him now.

“Yeah,” I say, with enough defensiveness to make myself cringe. “It’s me.”

Wesley groans, but Cordelia isn’t looking at him anymore. “Doyle?” she asks incredulously. “Doyle? You’re alive!”

Her whole face lights up with surprise and pleasure so that I almost start to let go of the fear. Then her eyebrows rise and she sucks in her cheeks. The corners of her mouth turn down. “How come you have the nerve to show your face around here after what you did to me? I thought you were just kissing me, but you were giving me headaches for the rest of my life. Come over here right now so I can kiss you.”

“I’m glad you’re happy to see me,” I say, and now I’m cold as ice inside, “but it doesn’t work that way. Once the gift is given, it’s given.”

“Okay, so how can _I_ give it away? I keep kissing people but it doesn’t seem to stick.”

Wesley is fully conscious now, looking at me with enough intelligence to make me squirm. “It’s not so simple, Cordelia,” he says thickly, and I can tell his jaw is killing him. “The gift can only be given when the proper moment has come.”

She looks at him angrily. “Are you telling me I have to wait until Christmas?”

“Perhaps a bit longer than that,” he says dryly, sitting up and touching his jaw experimentally with one hand. “Could you drive me to the Seven-Eleven, Angel? I think a bit of ice wouldn’t be amiss.”

“Of course, Wes,” Angel says kindly. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.” Ignoring the note of doubt in Wes’s voice, Angel hauls him to his feet. Wes stares at me appraisingly. I hate my face now more than ever and give it a trial shake. Nothing doing. “So you’re Doyle,” Wesley says painfully. “And you’ve got enough Brakken demon blood in you that you were able to rematerialize after your immolation.”

Even a simple “yes” seems redundant, so I nod curtly. Two things suddenly occur to me. This guy, for all his awkwardness, is devilish handsome behind his glasses. And he’s my replacement. Smarter and better looking than I ever was. This is what I came back to see.

“He was able to _what_?” Angel asks abruptly.

“Rematerialize,” Wesley says precisely in his irritating accent. “You see, Brakken demons have a special relationship with fire. When they’re immolated, their essence rematerializes somewhere else.”

“Where?” Cordelia asks blankly.

Wes shrugs and heads for Angel’s convertible. “It could have been anywhere,” he says over his shoulder. “When you told me what happened and I realized he hadn’t come back, I supposed that he must have been killed because of his human half. I didn’t mention that he might have survived because I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

Cordelia follows Wesley to the car. Angel steps up to me and takes me by the arm. His grip is tight and his face is tense with anger. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?”

“I— I ended up in Paris,” I stammer. “I was really shaken up. You see, I can’t look human anymore, and I didn’t want to…”

“They don’t have telephones in Paris?” His voice is quiet but that doesn’t fool me. I expect to feel his fist against my jaw any second.

I look down at his boots and rake my gaze up his body until I meet his eyes. His fingers are digging into my bicep hard enough to leave individual bruises, but I don’t care. I’m just glad he’s touching me. I want to bury my head against his chest but I don’t dare. It’s not Cordelia, it’s Angel. It’s always been Angel. He expected me to chase Cordelia, so I did. “You think she’s a hotty girl,” he said to me all that time ago. Hell, I might as well admit it was true. I wanted her. Stayed up nights thinking about it. And now everything’s different. Cordelia is my friend, but I’m in love with Angel. What about Wesley? Is that how he feels, too?

I don’t speak, but Angel must read something in my face because he suddenly relaxes and rubs my bruised arm gently with his hand. “It’s good to see you, Doyle,” he says with a little smile.

Yeah, it’s good to see me, but he’s got Wesley now. I’m a bit redundant, and a bit blue and sharp in the face. “I just wanted to see you,” I echo him lamely. “I’d better go now.”

His smile fades and he shakes his head. “Let’s find Wesley some ice and drive Cordelia home. Then we’ll talk.”

He practically forces me into the car. I slide down low in the seat so no one will see me. I feel exposed, even with my scarf and hat. It’s Los Angeles, for Chrisssake. No one wears a scarf over his face in L.A. I feel like the phantom of the fucking opera.

Angel glances back at me. He’s amused. That’s Angel for you. He’s either Mr. Angst or he’s laughing in your face. Fuck him. “Don’t worry, Doyle. No one gives a shit what you look like in L.A., remember?”

“Like hell,” I mumble for lack of a snappy comeback. I’m always at a loss when the subject is my face.

We go to a Seven-Eleven and Angel buys the ice while the rest of us sit in the car. Wesley tries to draw me out and get some more information about my rematerialization, but I’m probably even more ignorant about it than he is. Cordelia just gives me that look. She’s every bit as angry as I thought she’d be. Finally we pull up in front of her apartment building.

“Uh, Cordelia?” Angel suddenly sounds uncertain. She pauses to hear what he has to say. I can see that she cares a lot more about him than she used to. I can’t imagine what they’ve all been through together since I’ve been gone. “Can Wesley stay at your place tonight? Doyle and I have, uh, well, we have to talk.”

“Dennis won’t like it,” she says, shaking her head.

“Tell him it’s only for one night,” Angel coaxes.

“Screw Dennis.” I mutter irritably. “He’s a fucking ghost.”

Cordelia puts her hands on her hips and stares me down. “Dennis happens to be a great roommate, except for the fact that he can’t share the rent because he’s dead. He deserves a lot more respect than he gets. After all, he didn’t ask to be murdered.” To appease her I have to apologize, because I do want to get rid of Wesley.

After we drop Cordelia and Wesley off we head straight back to Angel’s place, and I realize that Angel is trying to be kind. Wesley must be staying with him, probably even sleeping in my old bed. Couch. Whatever. Unless he’s sharing Angel’s bed. But Angel can’t do that—or can he? Can’t he just have ordinary sex if he wants as long as it isn’t perfect? As long as it isn’t with Buffy? I’ve always wanted to ask him that. I wonder if he knows for sure. Either way I know I’m starting to long for something I can never have. First because I’m a Brakken demon now, not even the semblance of a man. I’m not the kind of thing you risk your soul for. And second—well, Angel has Wesley now. Even if they’re not sleeping together, they have each other the way Angel and I once did. Why didn’t I appreciate it then? Trust me to want what I can’t have and spit on what I can. According to Mum, it seems to run in the blue side of the family.

Angel parks the car and we walk down the steps into his lair. It’s pitch dark, but he lights a few lights, just enough so that you don’t fall over your feet in the darkness. I think about Angel always living in the dark even though he hates it. At least I’ve still got the light. When I dare to go out in it. When I’m sure no one will try to kill me.

We automatically go into the kitchen. I sit at the table and Angel puts on a pot of coffee. Just like old times. I can’t think of a thing to say.

“You must be hungry,” he murmurs, and I start to say no, but the sight of him taking eggs out of the fridge is so familiar I choke on the words. I watch him while he heats the pan and scrambles the eggs. I get out the bread and jam as he’s turning the omelet onto a plate. Perfect, as always. I could never do a perfect omelet to save my life. I guess it takes a couple hundred years to learn.

Angel pours us both coffee while I wolf the omelet and bread. I haven’t eaten in a day, not that I would have admitted it to him. But by the way he’s looking at me I know he knows.

When I’m done I sit back and look at him, but I can’t seem to keep my eyes on him too long. It’s as if he’s too bright to stare at, a shining angel. He’d wince if I said that. He sees himself as part of the darkness he’s forced to live in. I guess that’s why he understands me so well. He hates the demon in him, too. But there’s a difference. I _am_ the demon. He contains it, struggles against it. And when he relaxes his vigilance, it can take him over. If he’s happy for even a moment.

It’s hot and close in here below the ground with the windows shut tight. Angel wouldn’t notice if there was no air in here at all, but I’m sweating. I pull off the shabby sweater my cousin gave me and drape it over the back of the chair. When I turn back, Angel is staring at me.

“What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.” Actually, I don’t know that. The vampire on my back was trying to slit my throat. I put a hand to my collar and feel a sticky wetness. “I’d better go look at it.” I get up.

“Let me help you,” Angel says, but I don’t want him that near me.

“I’ll manage.” I start for the bathroom.

“Doyle, you’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”

That stops me. “What?”

Angel wears the quirky little smile that I always imagine when I think of him. “There’s no mirror, Doyle.”

“Damn. Come ahead, then.”

In the bathroom I remember that Angel has taken the door to the medicine chest right off its hinges and tossed it in the trash. It must be unpleasant to be continually reminded that you’re not really there. He wets a cloth and dabs at my throat. I hold my head back obediently and close my eyes.

“It’s just a scratch,” he announces, “but there’s one kind of deep part. I’ll put a bandage on it.”

“Band-Aids don’t stick to my skin,” I tell him. “Anyway, demons heal fast.”

“How about steri-strips?”

I feel his fingers explore the texture of my skin. I shudder. “Dunno.”

“Let’s try. Cuts like this heal faster when the edges of skin are held together. Anyway, it’ll stop the bleeding.”

I let him do what he wants. His fingers are cool and gentle against my throat as he smoothes the adhesive on. His touch stops and I tilt my head forward to see if he’s done, but he’s just reaching back for me. His fingertips brush my spines and he looks at me in surprise.

“They’re soft,” he whispers happily, running the back of his hand across my face and staring at it in fascination. “I never knew.”

“So you thought I got a puncture wound every time I brushed my teeth?” I say, embarrassed.

But he’s not listening to me. He’s got that look on his face like a little boy with a new toy, or maybe it’s more like a little boy who’s playing with a really weird bug. That’s me, Doyle, king of the really weird bugs. I start to get angry but then I realize that he can’t help himself. That’s Angel’s only salvation, being able to get lost in the moment like that. Each moment he can focus on some harmless pleasure is one less moment he has to spend in hell. He’s cupping my face with both hands now, running his palms lightly over the spines on my cheeks, back and forth, grinning at me like a fool. It sends chills through my body, and deep in my chest and groin I start to ache for him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to me but I don’t tell him to stop. That would be too bright. Doyle, you moron, you’re going to wait until you get so aroused you won’t be able to restrain yourself.

“Angel,” I sob as I reach out for him. My hands are around his face and my mouth crushes his mouth, obliterating his look of surprise.

When I was young I had a few choice words for men who did what we’re doing now. I had a few choice words for demons, too, even though I was one. Whatever I am, I’ve always cursed it. Whatever I’m not I’ve always wanted to be. Damn, but I’ve been a stupid sod. Maybe I’m growing up because right now I don’t care what or who we are. I want him. And by the way he’s kissing me back I know he wants me too.

I rub my spines over his face while he closes his eyes and lets me do it. His submission makes me want to hurry, to taste every part of him before I have to stop. I nuzzle into his neck and lick my way down to his chest as I tear open his black shirt and push it down his arms and off him. He’s so smooth, so white. I take great gulping tastes of his chest and bite at his nipples. Through the spines I feel him over and over, as if I had ten mouths and twenty hands. He bursts over me like a wave.

“Doyle, no,” he moans. “We can’t do this.”

I push him back into the bedroom and force him down on the bed. He’s under the spell of what I’m doing now and it makes him weak. His muscles ripple under my hands and mouth as I tease him with my spines, and still he can’t stop me. I’m in control, he’s mine. I must be a Brakken demon for certain because I’m on fire now.

As I straddle him I feel his erection and I reach for it, rubbing it hard through his pants. He gasps and shudders and grabs my hands away.

“You’re crazy, Doyle,” he says in a broken voice. “What are you doing to me?”

Here I am only thinking about how much I want him, and I’ve completely forgotten how it’s been for him. How long has it been since someone touched him with love, since he was kissed this way? He lives like a ghost in a world where everyone around him thinks nothing of a casual caress or a night with a stranger. For Angel every touch opens the door to hell. And he ought to know—he’s been there. He has to be constantly on his guard, always rejecting the love he wants more than anything else.

But even Angel has his limits. Even Angel, who I’ve never seen be anything but strong and moody and self-contained. He makes it look easy with his melancholy beauty. But now he’s spent three months thinking I’m dead and here I am in the spiky flesh with my hands and mouth all over him. All this time I only thought about how much I cared for him. I never really believed that it made more than a bit of difference to him when I let myself get burned to a crisp. But that’s my excuse, isn’t it? I never have to be responsible for people’s feelings if I refuse to believe they love me. And look what I’ve done. Angel’s lying spread out and helpless before me. He’s powerless to make me stop. I look at his face and I see his desire and his misery. I see that he’s given himself up to me.

I can go on and have him if I want. And maybe I’ll unleash Angelus on the world again. I won’t know that until it’s too late.

I lie down next to him on the bed and take his gorgeous, sad face into my cupped hands. “I’m sorry, Angel. I’m so sorry.” I can’t stop compulsively babbling apologies, and I’m trembling violently with fear and frustrated arousal, all my fire turned to ice.

“Shhhhh…” He comforts me with a chaste kiss on the lips. He rubs his hands up and down my arms. Now I’m the one who’s helpless from thinking about what I nearly did to him. “It’s okay, Doyle,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of you.”

I think they’re just vague words of comfort until I feel him slide down the bed and kneel at my feet, between my knees. He unzips my pants and begins to take them down. I struggle to sit up as he gets them down to my ankles and starts to pull them off.

“What are you thinking, Angel? Jesus!” I’m royally pissed off at him now. What the fuck is he doing, toying with me like this?

He spares me a brief glance and it stops me cold. There’s no fun or even dominance in his eyes, just tormented desire. “I can do this, for you, Doyle,” he says thickly. “It’s the only way I’ll be safe.”

“I can’t just let you—”

“Can’t you see?” he says explosively. “This is the only way I can be close to the people I care about. This is the only way I can feel as if I’m still alive.” He laughs derisively. “Alive… I died two hundred years ago. This is the only way I can pretend I’m still human.” He puts his lips to my blue cock and kisses it. He kisses it. Sweet Jesus.

I’m lost then and he’s in control. I lean back on my elbows and watch him through the tears in my eyes as he swallows me whole, and he looks happy, poor sod. He’s smiling as he slips his mouth off me and glances up at my face. Then his lips are back on me and his hands caress my thighs more surely now. He’s leaning into his work, pushing me halfway down his throat as if he can’t get enough. The picture is burning itself into my brain: Angel, kneeling between my legs, eating me alive, while I lie here as if I’m paralyzed. There’s nothing I can do. I’m pathetic. I hear myself whimpering because I know I can’t last. I don’t want it to end because this is the only moment he’ll ever be mine. I want to touch every inch of him but all I can have is his warm mouth. And I know that this is the only time.

Now I can’t fight it off anymore. Everything gets indistinct around me and to my eyes it seems that Angel is wearing a brilliant golden haze. He’s watching me now. He feels it coming. And I force my eyes to stay open so I can be there with him as he slows his stroke and sucks me harder, and I start to tremble again, my body is convulsing and I’m crying out for him in words I don’t even understand. It’s over in seconds.

He comes to me then, and I’ll always remember that. Even though it would be safer, he doesn’t walk away and abandon me when I’m so open to him. He slips into my arms and kisses me on my smooth cheek.

My hand flies to my face. The spines are gone. He covers my hand with his own and smiles, and we don’t even speak of it. His forehead is resting against mine and I try to keep very, very still so that he’ll stay. But after a moment he shifts away and leans his head on his hand and looks at me. I can’t read his eyes.

“You can’t have… any release?” I ask him awkwardly.

He looks away. “Sometimes I do,” he says reluctantly, “sometimes at night when I… I mean, when it happens on its own.” He pauses and looks at me with a hint of a smile. “I take a lot of cold showers,” he says ruefully.

I want to help him then, but I’m at a loss what to do, so I resort to the thing that will make me feel better. I kiss him on the mouth gently, tonguing his lips and tongue when he opens to me. As I taste myself on him, I start to get stiff again and kiss him more urgently _.   How can this be wrong_ , my instincts tell me, _when it’s what we both want?_ That’s when Angel groans deep in his throat and clutches desperately at my shoulders. For a second I don’t know what’s happening until he breaks off our kiss and thrusts hard against me, moaning in protest against the spasm he can’t master.

“Angel,” I say, appalled at what I’ve done. He opens his eyes and I see in their depths a glimpse of hell. It’s Angelus, and for a split second he makes Angel’s beautiful face seem a death’s head. The vision fades and Angel buries his face against my shoulder.

“I’m all right,” he says finally, his voice muffled. “It didn’t happen.” He shakes his head and looks at me. “It _could_ have happened, though. I don’t know where the line is. I’ve only crossed it once and I can’t do it again. I can’t be that again. I have a destiny in the world. I don’t know what it is, but even if I’m forced to live in torment for a thousand years I have to fulfill it.” His voice rises in anger and I react defensively, damn it, by making it all about me.

“It wasn’t a ‘perfect moment,’ eh?”

Hurt, Angel glares at me and starts to speak, but he stops as a thought strikes him and he collapses on the bed in laughter.

“I don’t see the joke,” I say coldly.

“I came in my pants, Doyle,” he chokes. “How ‘perfect’ could it be?”

I try to laugh with him, but I’m still too scared. My stupidity and greed almost cost him more than I’d ever want him to pay. Too much depends on him. Too many depend on him. Yeah, well, it’s easy to think what you ought to have done when you’ve already had your fun. It was a close shave.

And then, right after that, we start talking as if it’s settled I’m going to leave in the morning. I tell him I’ll wait until Cordelia comes in and then I’ll go have coffee with her, if she’ll have me.

He laughs. “She’s been mooning over you for three months,” he says. “You had her right where you wanted her and you had to go burn yourself up.”

“I thought I was going to die.” I can’t match Angel’s light tone. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have given her the sight.”

“I know,” he says, rubbing my shoulder. “And I’m glad you were wrong, but I still think you should have called me or something.”

“I should have” is all I can manage. I want to hold him in my arms again, but that’s too dangerous even to think about.

“You take the bed,” he says, rising and picking up his shirt from the bathroom floor. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No,” I tell him firmly, as I try to untangle my pants and put them on, “the couch was good enough for me all those months, and it’s good enough for me tonight.” I don’t think I’ll be doing a lot of sleeping anyway.

He smiles and shuts the bathroom door. I hear the shower running. I go into the kitchen and sit at the table with my hands over my ears and try to stop imagining him stripping off those sticky pants.

Angel loved me tonight and gave me my humanity back. At breakfast I’ll see him once more. I’ll be civil to that prig Wesley and do my best to make my peace with Cordelia over a latte, and then it will be time to go off and find my own destiny. And, someday, if The Powers That Be are willing, I’ll see him again.


End file.
